


Original Contributions

by sideraclara (angeloscastiel)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Community: HPFT, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7952281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeloscastiel/pseuds/sideraclara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius Black and Remus Lupin are PhD students assigned to the same office. This, in itself, is distracting enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

 

It’s been about six years since Remus Lupin last found himself on an entirely new university campus, and he’s been uncomfortably reminded of his fresher self all morning. He has his new ID card on a _lanyard,_ for fuck’s sake, because his arms are too laden with books and stationery and stacks of precariously-fluttering paperwork, and he’s found it easier so far to optimistically wave his torso in front of the security scanners than to hold the card in his hand like a normal human being.

He’s also lost, because he applied here without ever seeing the campus and made the decision to enrol based solely on the size of the scholarship they were willing to give him, and every building he’s been in has been a fucking labyrinth. He’s been turfed from Student Services (Enrolment) to the Dean of Postgraduate Studies and from there to the Postgraduate Student Union, and then to the Faculty of Arts office where someone directed him to the History administrator, who frowned at her computer screen a lot, flipped through a bunch of folders, and informed him that due to space restrictions he had the choice of either a desk in the History MA office, or to share an office with one other person Downstairs in Classics.

“How many people in the MA office?”

“Eight, now,” she said, and her puzzled frown turned into an apologetic one. “They’re all doing genocide.”

The choice was an easy one, and Remus has now spent ten minutes roaming the building looking for Downstairs in Classics. It’s an ambiguous location, as it turns out, because History’s on the south side of the sixth floor and _everywhere_ is Downstairs from there, but eventually he finds a sign for the Classics department on the first floor and peers into the first partially open door he finds, which is luckily the admin office.

“Morning,” he says, cringing at how out of breath he sounds. “I’m, uh – looking for my office.”

“You’re the History PhD?” she asks. “You’re in 108, on the right just past the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

“I think Sirius is in so it’ll be open,” she continues. “Just pop by for the key once you’ve dropped off – ” she gestures vaguely at the veritable library stacked in Remus’s arms – “all that.”

“Thanks,” Remus repeats, and nudges the door of 108 open with a well-placed knee.

Its sole occupant is a lanky, black-haired twentysomething with his feet propped up on the desk, who twists slightly in his seat as Remus comes in. He waits, hands clasped behind his head, for Remus to dump his stuff on the surface of the second desk before springing to his feet.

“Hey,” he says, extending a hand. “Name’s Sirius Black.”

“Remus Lupin,” Remus returns.

A grin spreads across Sirius’s face, and Remus realises belatedly that this man, being a Classicist, has surely recognised the stupidity of Remus’s name.

“Nice to meet you, Wolfy McWolfface,” Sirius says, beaming, before settling back into his chair and propping his feet back on his desk. “I hear you’re doing history. Welcome to enemy territory.”

There are a lot of things Remus wants to respond to, but he settles on the most pressing matter. “How’d you know I’m doing history? I only found out my office ten minutes ago.”

“Kay gave me a heads up yesterday,” Sirius says. “Said you’d have the choice between here and the History MAs, and nobody in their right mind would share an office with the History MAs.”

“What’s wrong with the History MAs?”

“They’re all doing fucking genocide up there. Or if they’re not doing genocide they’re doing war crimes or something equally horrific. Talked to one girl the other day whose entire thesis is on forms of civilian violence in the French Wars of Religion.” Sirius spins in his chair, pointing an accusatory finger at Remus. “What’s your thesis on?”

“Um, Erasmus of Rotterdam.”

Sirius nods approvingly. “So you’re a Latinist, then?”

“Yeah. Well, I’m all right.”

“Who’s your supervisor? S’pose it’ll be Horace Slughorn, yeah?”

“Yeah, him. Do you know much about him?”

“He’s pretty notorious,” Sirius says. “Real good supervisor, from what I’ve heard. But he definitely has his favourites. And he’ll only take on students he knows he’ll be able to brag about, so you must have impressed him.”

“I suppose that’s something. What about you? What’s your thesis on?”

“Fuck knows,” Sirius says. “I haven’t enrolled yet. Can’t work it out. I get the office because I’m tutoring, and the department knows I’m _going_ to enrol, but I can’t decide on a field, let alone a thesis.”

“What was your masters on?”

“Seneca. But if I had to spend another three years reading him I’d probably gouge my eyes out.” Sirius rakes a hand through his hair. “I was thinking about doing something with Greek, but my supervisor works in Roman politics and she and I both know I’m not leaving her. I’m just playing hard to get.”

“You sound pretty close to your supervisor.”

“I would die on a battlefield for Minerva McGonagall,” Sirius says. “She’s a fucking – she’s a goddess. She owes my soul – literally, figuratively, and most importantly, academically. Speaking of,” he says, springing up from his chair, “I’m gonna go see her. Back in ten – unless we come up with my thesis topic, in which case I might be a bit longer.”

Once Sirius has left, Remus takes a moment to set up his desk and organise his piles of books. It looks a bit bare – especially compared to Sirius’s, who, despite not having a thesis topic, has amassed an impressive collection of books. He has a two-volume Oxford Latin Dictionary, which Remus intends to avail himself of a lot (thank God for Classicists), a Liddell and Scott, half a dozen pocket dictionaries and grammar guides, several piles of Penguin Classic editions of Roman writers (which, if stacked, would probably be taller than Remus), and four undergraduate textbooks on Roman social and political history. His desk is littered with library hold receipts, empty coffee cups, and things like ‘political ideology in Lucan?’ scrawled on crumpled pieces of paper; the walls covered with little quotes in Greek and Latin, children’s drawings, and photos of a little dark-haired boy who, in the most recent of them, doesn’t look any older than five.

Feeling oddly like he’s intruding, Remus drops by the admin office to pick up his key. When he gets back, Sirius has returned.

“Still no thesis,” Sirius announces.

“Damn,” Remus offers, and gestures vaguely at the photos. “Is this your son?”

“Sorta,” Sirius says. “Well, yeah. Nah. He’s my godson, technically, but I adopted him when his mum and dad died.”

“Oh,” Remus says. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, me and his dad were best mates since school. But he’s a good kid,” Sirius continues, brightening. “His name’s Harry. You’ll meet him today, probably – I bring him round here after school for a few hours. Hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. How old is he?”

“Five. He only started school a few weeks ago but his teacher says he’s doing really well.” Sirius shuffles through a pile of articles, scribbles down half a dozen names, and stands. “I’m heading to the library, do you want to tag along?”

“Yeah,” Remus says, and stuffs his ID – now out of its lanyard – into his pocket. “I guess I should get started.”

 

 


	2. Two

Horace Slughorn takes Remus out to lunch two days later. It’s his preferred way to get to know his new PhD students, he explains as they take a table at the nicer campus café – postgrads and staff only – and orders a double portion of fish and chips along with a pint of Guinness. He’s a large man, all smiles and small talk, and chides Remus for only ordering the soup.

“You need to learn to take advantage of free food,” he informs him. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I’m fine.”

“Right,” Horace says once the waiter has left, and leans forward. “So, Erasmus. What are you planning to do with him? You mentioned sexuality and morality in your emails.”

“Yeah, I’d like to use his letters and his theological works to examine societal attitudes to sexuality in the early sixteenth century.”

“That’s a very broad topic. How are you planning to narrow it down?”

The meeting lasts two hours, maybe three; Remus has lost track by the time Horace says “Well, I think you’ve got enough to be getting on with,” and strolls with him back to the building.

“I hear you’re Downstairs With Classics,” he says conversationally. “Who are you sharing an office with?”

“Sirius Black.”

“Ah, Sirius,” Horace says. “I taught him a bit in undergraduate. I don’t normally notice undergrads, but he was quite exceptional. It was a shame when I lost him to Classics. What is his thesis on? Last I spoke to Minerva he was having some trouble narrowing it down.”

“He still hasn’t worked it out.”

“Hmm,” Horace said thoughtfully. “I may poach him back for Early Modern History yet. I have a great respect for Minerva, of course, but Classics is an entirely pointless subject.”

He doesn’t seem to expect a response, and after reminding Remus to email him for another meeting in two weeks, disappears into the lift.

Sirius has already left to pick up Harry from school, so Remus takes advantage of the silence to get stuck into some research. Horace has told him he should aim to have his candidature confirmation done before Christmas, which is a somewhat terrifying prospect given that it’s already halfway through September and he’s been here for three days. By the time Sirius returns with Harry in tow Remus has put in twenty-three requests at the library (eight of them interloans) and is feeling cautiously optimistic.

“How was Sluggy?” Sirius asks, and Harry giggles.

“He seems nice,” Remus offers. “Bought me lunch, threw shade at Classics.”

“Aw, yeah, sounds like him,” Sirius says, rummaging around in his desk drawer and pulling out an apple for Harry. “The entire department hates him.”

“He doesn’t say that to their _face.”_

“Oh, he does,” Sirius says. “I’ve been in this department a _long_ time, I know all the goss. And the goss is that we live vicariously through History, because they have all the drama and we’re disappointingly harmonious, though very eccentric.”

“Aren’t all academics eccentric?”

“You haven’t met Albus Dumbledore,” Sirius says. “He’s a Classicist, and the Dean of Arts, and he looks a bit like a wizard. Grey hair down to here – ” Sirius indicates his waist – “And a beard to match. Little glasses. We all call him Gandalf. Harry loves him, don’t you, kiddo?”

“Yeah,” Harry says sincerely, legs swinging in the air as he perches on the edge of Sirius’s desk. “I writted a story about him today.”

“Wrote,” Sirius corrects idly. “What did you write about him?”

“About how he’s magic, and he has a magic wand and he fights bad guys with it.”

“Do you have it in your school bag?” Sirius asks. “We can go and show Professor Dumbledore it if you want, I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“No,” Harry says. “It’s not finished yet. It’s gonna be a _really long story.”_

“Are you gonna write a book, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and points at Sirius’s Liddell and Scott. “It’s gonna be bigger than that. Can we go get juice?”

“We can go get juice,” Sirius says. “You’ll need the energy if you’re going to write such a big book.” He ushers Harry out of the office, throwing Remus a wink over his shoulder.

It’s one of those moments that changes everything, because Remus’s heart skips a beat and he’s got that swooping sensation in his stomach, and the moment he’s sure Sirius is out of earshot he slumps over his desk, face in a musty nineteenth-century edition of Erasmus’s letters, and mutters “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Because Sirius is a really attractive dude, and thanks to that wink he’s gone suddenly from _objectively_ hot to _problematically_ hot, and Remus has to share an office with him for the next three years.

The Genocide MAs suddenly seem appealing, and Remus has Outlook open to email the History admin about a change of office before he remembers that he’s twenty-fucking-seven and a PhD candidate, for fuck’s sake, and goes back to his inbox. There’s a new email from Horace, apparently sent to all his postgrads, welcoming Remus to what he calls the ‘Slug Club.’ Remus can’t decide if this is endearing or cringeworthy, and settles on a healthy mix of both.

“The next J. R. R. Tolkein has his juice,” Sirius announces, and Remus’s stomach does the swoopy thing again at the sound of his voice. Jesus, he’s fucked.

“May it fuel your creative endeavours,” he says instead, raising his water bottle in a mock toast to Harry. Harry, at least, finds this hilarious.

They don’t stay much longer – Sirius is gone by four thirty most afternoons – and Sirius lets Harry run on ahead while he lingers briefly in the doorway. “Don’t stay too late.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it,” Sirius says, and a grin slowly spreads across his face. “It’s meant to be a full moon tonight and you’ll wreck the office if you turn into a werewolf in here.”

“Oh, fuck off, Black.”

“I want the furniture in one piece in the morning!” Sirius hollers down the corridor.


	3. Three

Remus’s flatmates come home early Sunday evening. He hasn’t met them yet – they’ve been away at a Digital Humanities conference for the past week and a half, and he got his keys directly from the guy he replaced on the lease. He found the place on a Queer-Friendly Flatmates Wanted Facebook page – by some stroke of luck, his new flatmates are both Humanities PhD students, and they’ve held the lease for the cosy two-bedroom cottage round the corner from campus since they were undergraduates. Unlike the other flats Remus has been in, this one has a comfortable sense of permanence – they’ve planted a veggie garden, and Remus has been in charge of looking after their cat since he moved in. He’s a giant, friendly Maine Coon named Kneazle (“I have no idea where they got that from,” Guy-Who-Moved-Out told him, “But it’s something to do with a drinking game in third year.”) who has stretched himself luxuriantly across Remus’s too-small bed every night so far.

Remus is doing the dishes when his new flatmates arrive, and the first of them walks into the kitchen, dumping her bags on the floor as she goes, and yells over her shoulder, “Oh thank God! He cleans!”

“Hi,” says Remus.

“Sorry, hi,” she says, extending her hand and shaking Remus’s despite the bubbles covering it, “I’m Marlene, this is Dorcas – the last guy was so _gross_ with his dishes, you wouldn’t _believe – ”_

“Oh, I can believe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “Welcome home. How’re you finding the place? Has Kneazle been behaving himself?”

“Yeah, he’s been sleeping on my bed. He’s a sweetie.”

“A sweetie, yes,” Marlene concedes, “But a hefty motherfucker. I’ve woken up with no feeling in my legs if he’s decided to sleep on them. What are you studying, again?”

“Early Modern History.”

Marlene pulls a face. “S’pose Horace Slughorn’s your supervisor, then.”

“I get the feeling his reputation precedes him.”

“Oh, yeah. My entire department hates him. Well, they’re polite enough to his _face,_ but he’s just so rude about our entire field – ”

“You’re not studying Classics, are you?”

“Yeah. Has he ripped out Classics already?”

“Yeah, something about it being pointless. Also, my officemate’s a Classicist.”

Marlene’s eyes light up. “Are you sharing with _Sirius?”_

“What’s this about Sirius?” Dorcas asks, suddenly appearing behind Marlene. “Ooh, are you Sirius’s officemate?”

“Oh, yeah. I take it you guys know him?”

“Us and Sirius go _way_ back,” Marlene says. “We were all in the halls together in first year, with Mary and James and Lily and Pet – ”

She cuts herself off, but Dorcas picks up so seamlessly that Remus wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t been paying attention. “ – They were all on one floor, and I was on another, and Marlene and I were in a lot of the same classes and we kept telling ourselves we were Just Friends, you know how it is, but it was Sirius who eventually got us together.”

“By rigging the voting for Cutest Couple Award so it would be us,” Marlene says, rolling her eyes, “And then hijcking the sound system to play ‘Kiss the Girl’.” Sirius is not a subtle creature.”

“It worked, obviously.”

“And he’ll never let us forget it. Every anniversary we’ve had so far, we’ve had a snap of Sirius’s smug face saying ‘you’re welcome’. Wanker. D’you wanna come down to the shop with us?” Marlene asks suddenly. “We’re picking up wine and I figure there’s no better way to get to know a new flattie.”

“Wine sounds fantastic.”

* * *

 

It’s a decision Remus comes to regret. He has vague recollections of SingStar, a _lot_ of viral cat videos, earnestly telling Kneazle that he’s “such a good fluff,” and – perhaps most embarrassingly – wailing “God, he’s too _hot_ and it’s _not fair_ ,” as Marlene and Dorcas flipped through screenshotted snaps of Sirius.

Unfortunate.

It’s also unfortunate that Remus has come in slightly later than usual, and gone for coffee at the café just beside their building instead of the one he’s been going to across campus (it’s cheaper, even if the coffee is a bit shit) and as he’s waiting for his triple shot latte a cheerful, booming voice makes his soul sink down somewhere into his shoes. “Remus!”

“Horace,” Remus returns, turning to face his supervisor and hoping his hangover isn’t etched too harshly into his face.

“How are you?”

_Really fucking hungover,_ Remus thinks.

“Right,” Horace says, and the sinking feeling intensifies when Remus realises he just said that out loud, “Good.”

He seems amused, at least, and Remus stares pointedly at the floor and wishes the barista would hurry up.

“You know,” Horace continues, “When I was an undergraduate, I once – actually, no, I probably shouldn’t tell you that.” He takes his tea and strides out, leaving Remus just as hungover and infinitely more confused.

Things only go downhill from there, because ten minutes after Remus has arrived in his office, not yet ready to open his laptop or do anything other than resolutely sip his coffee like it’s an elixir of life, the famed Minerva McGonagall drops by in search of Sirius.

“He’s not in yet,” Remus says.

“I can see that,” Minerva says at length. “You must be Remus Lupin.”

He nods, wincing when the movement sets his headache off again, and trying to avoid eye contact with Minerva. She’s tall, severe looking, with a sternness that wouldn’t be out of place on a schoolteacher, and he feels suddenly ashamed of being hungover at nine thirty on a Monday morning in front of someone who looks like she could give him detention.

_PhD student,_ he reminds himself.

“When Sirius comes in, tell him to come by my office,” Minerva says. “I have some articles for him. Perhaps I can get to know you better, Mr Lupin, when your blood alcohol levels have returned to a healthy balance.”

“Excellent plan,” Remus says, and as soon as she’s closed the door behind her he slides off his chair and lies, defeated, on the threadbare carpet. He’s still there twenty minutes later when his phone buzzes with an email from Horace, informing him that Professor Minerva McGonagall, from Classics, will be his secondary supervisor due to her ‘remarkable expertise in Renaissance Latin’, and signing off with a “P. S – I do hope you feel better soon; perhaps drinking on a Sunday night is not the wisest of ideas!”

“Fuck me,” Remus mutters, and drapes an arm over his eyes.

“You’ll have to buy me dinner first!” Sirius quips, coming through the door with such remarkable timing Remus almost suspects him of lying in wait for that very moment, and noisily dumping his bag onto his desk.

“Minerva’s looking for you,” Remus says, not bothering to remove his arm.

“Oh, cheers. She come by?”

“Yeah.”

Sirius squats down beside him. “You look a bit worse for wear, mate.”

“Hmmph.”

“Marley tells me you were getting on it last night.”

“Mmm.”

“If it’s any consolation she’s no better,” Sirius continues. “Sent me a snap ten minutes ago looking like death. Also quite a few last night.”

“Oh no,” Remus groans.

“I must say,” Sirius says, “You’ve been holding out on me. Never knew you were such a good singer. Total Eclipse of the Heart, was it? I couldn’t really tell, it was just unintelligible wailing most of the time.”

“I’m going to kill her.”

“Did Minerva notice that you’re hungover to fuck?”

“Yup,” Remus says, and drags his hands down his face. “She’s my secondary.”

“ _No,”_ Sirius says, delighted. “Did she tell you that?”

“No. Just got the email from Horace. First impressions 101 by Remus Lupin.”

“You’ll be fine,” Sirius says, but he’s still laughing in a way that isn’t reassuring in the least, “I’ll pop by now and make sure she knows it was Marley’s doing. And hey, you’re one up on her for actually showing up today, she was meant to have a meeting with Minerva at nine but she bailed.”

“S’pose that’s something.”

“Yeah. Rest in peace, Wolfy McWolfface. Fuck, that’s a mouthful, isn’t it? I think I’m gonna call you Moony from now on. You know. Coz of the full moon.”

“Ha ha ha. Your originality astounds me.”

“I’m not a creative man, Remus. Why do you think I’m doing Classics? _Nihil sub sole novum_.”

“That’s from the Vulgate, you closeted medievalist!”

Sirius pauses in the doorway and waggles his eyebrows. “I’m not a closeted anything, Moony my man.” With a dramatic hair flick, he disappears.


End file.
